


Worse Mornings

by Klexquisite



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (or is it? I don't even know myself), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Brief mention of self-harm, Enjolras is an asshole, Grantaire is an asshole too, M/M, Partnership, Pining, Unrequited Love, is Enjolras a Vulcan we just don't know, they deserve each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 17:17:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klexquisite/pseuds/Klexquisite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite the daily arguments, the calls at 3am because 'don't forget there's that rally I need to be at 6:30am didn't I tell you', the countless hours spent listening to Commissaire Javert roar about The Law (and Enjolras' blasphemous disrespect of it), and the occasional death scare, it's easy, and comfortable, and unsurprising.</p>
<p>That is, until Enjolras starts talking about marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worse Mornings

**Author's Note:**

> Well this is me, publishing a fanfic for the first time in years. Let's say I'm bringing my native French charm to this fandom. Huzzah?  
> Huge thanks to my two lovely betas ([x](http://corps-exquis.tumblr.com/), [x](http://proprietyisnotapriority.tumblr.com/)) as well as the ever so perfect [Caz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cami_case), who has to deal with my random fic ideas and fangirling over Hadley Fraser on a daily basis.  
> Any remaining mistake, butchered characterization, or awkward syntax is my own fault.

« I think we should get married. »

_Okay, what now?_

They were having a perfectly nice breakfast, damn it. The April weather is for once decent enough that they were able to sit outside the café. Feet propped up on a chair, Grantaire had been lost in his thoughts for a while now, the coffee he ordered just for the sake of ordering something forgotten on the table, while Enjolras was reading three newspapers at once, muttering to himself now and then. The argument they had fifteen minutes ago about the recent Cahuzac scandal stayed entirely in the realm of politeness (hell, Enjolras only stomped his feet once), the wind is barely chilly and he can finally wear his mittens instead of his gloves, his pack of cigarettes is full, the early sunlight is shining on the roofs of Paris and in Enjolras' hair, the birds aren't chirping but they're pretty damn close. All in all, most mornings of Grantaire's life have been worse than this one.

Which is of course why Enjolras chose that moment to placidly state, without even raising his eyes from _Courrier International_  :

« I think we should get married. »

After a pensive beat, he adds :

« Obviously, I mean a PACS. The same-sex marriage law still isn't going to pass for a while, » (he appropriately takes a second to scoff at that), « but even if it were an option, I don't think either of us feels any attachment to that bourgeois tradition. A civil partnership is much more practical, not to mention suited to our needs. »

Grantaire has on many occasions admired Enjolras' eloquence and thorough thinking skills. Now is not one of those times. He needs Enjolras to shut the fuck up, and to do it now.  
In the almost six years that they have known each other, six years that he has been terribly in love with Enjolras, Grantaire has had time to prepare for any wonderful and improbable change in their relationship. He knows what he is going to do and say if Enjolras takes his hand for some reason unrelated to running away from the cops, if he drunkenly kisses him, if they need to share a bed and wake up cuddling, and most of all if Enjolras is one day affected by pon farr, which they have all more or less started to accept as a viable theory (and it should actually happen some time this year, according to Courfeyrac's calculations).  
Grantaire knows what he is going to do in these highly hypothetical situations because he rehearsed. In front of the mirror. He doubts his ability to even remain conscious were Enjolras to show any impromptu sign of non-platonic interest in him, so he rehearsed. One scenario he definitely never rehearsed for, however, is a proposal over breakfast. There is such a thing as being beyond the bounds of all logic and conceivability.

Sure, their current relationship could be deemed amiable, even affectionate, compared to the first months after they met each other. Enjolras was leading a student association, hoping to change the country with flyers and protests and weekly meetings, and Grantaire sat in a corner with a flask, openly bothered by both Enjolras' naive idealism and tight red jeans. Not three days could go by without a fight exploding between the two of them, insults and snickers flying just as easily as pamphlets and bottles. But after a couple of years of student strikes, the core members of Les Amis all gradually started to go their own way because of work, relationships, or a one-year-long hitchhiking trip in Feuilly and Bahorel's case. One day, Combeferre, who was probably already Enjolras' right-hand man in nursery school, announced that he had accepted a teaching job in Lille, and everyone knew that that was it. They never entirely lose sight of each other, but Enjolras's dreams of revolution would have to arise without his old friends.

Enjolras and Grantaire are the only two who remained. Enjolras works with trade unions, writes a few articles from time to time, runs a mildly popular political blog, angrily rants in front of universities, and takes part in every protest he can. Grantaire often draws for tourists on the quays of the Seine, bartends a bit, and mainly follows Enjolras everywhere he goes. He doesn't believe in change any more than he did before, but every time a protest goes particularly well or an important law is voted in and Enjolras casts him a delighted smile, Grantaire wants him to have his happy revolutionary ending maybe even more than he wants to wake up by his side.  
He knows he can't replace Combeferre. After a few hesitant weeks, Enjolras uncomfortably grabbed his arm and declared : « I can carry on with most of the ABC work by myself, and I know you don't care about it anyway, but I could use your presence for other matters » (which is still the nicest thing he said to him, okay). So, Grantaire accompanies Enjolras to dangerous demonstrations, knocks out anyone who lays a finger on him, stitches him up when he comes back from a protest that should have been peaceful but probably grew violent because of him, waits for him in front of police stations and in hospital waiting rooms, orders food or tries to cook on good days, goes grocery shopping (with Enjolras' credit card, mind you), forces him into bed when he overworks himself, often ends up doing his laundry. Just generally makes sure the guy stays alive.

You can barely call it a friendship, for they disagree on pretty much everything, but they hardly go anywhere without each other these days. Grantaire spends enough nights at Enjolras' apartment that most of his clothes are now in the spare bedroom's closet. They have their meals together because it's more practical, and they can both make sure that the other one eats appropriately. When Enjolras' work required an increasing amount of travelling around the country, they agreed on a motorcycle (Grantaire refuses to be seen on a bike, and Enjolras holds a grude against cars and public transportation). Enjolras bought it and Grantaire drives it. It's efficient.

The rest of the group finds it hilarious (especially the part where Enjolras sits on the back of a motorcycle, his arms around Grantaire). It is a mystery, and a fantastic fuel for gossip, how the two men went from breaking a chair against the wall over a political argument, to practically living together. It is still a mystery to Enjolras and Grantaire as well, but they go along with it. Before they know it, almost four years have passed, and they still haven't killed each other.

Grantaire leaves cigarette stubs everywhere, sketches stupid shit on everything but refuses to show his serious work, and makes unhelpful comments at the worst moments ; Enjolras constantly checks his phone, gets pissed off at the slightest thing, and enjoys the sound of his own voice way too much. They are used to each other.  
Grantaire tries to drink a little bit less, Enjolras becomes a little bit more considerate, and they are both still assholes, yet they make it work.

Grantaire's infatuation never disappears (it grew all the more, really), and he calls it infatuation because it's easier to dismiss on bad days, but he is content with that bizarre companionship of theirs. Despite the daily arguments, the calls at 3am because 'don't forget there's that rally I need to be at 6:30am didn't I tell you', the countless hours spent listening to Commissaire Javert roar about The Law (and Enjolras' blasphemous disrespect of it), and the occasional death scare, it's easy, and comfortable, and unsurprising.

That is, until Enjolras starts talking about marriage.

...

_What the fuck._  
Grantaire is staring at Enjolras with what he hopes isn't a too ridiculous facial expression.

And he's going to have to answer at some point.

Some very imminent point.

He's been silent for a _lot_ of seconds now.

Is there even an appropriate response when the revolution-crazed Greek god you've been in love with for an embarrassing amount of time and who you thought half-tolerated half-casually hated you suddenly asks for your hand ?

Maybe there is, maybe this exact same situation happened to some other unfortunate bastard.

Grantaire hopes things turned out okay for that guy. They certainly did, because he probably didn't choke out with wide eyes: « Yeah, er, yeah, okay ». Only an idiot would answer that.

Grantaire is an idiot.

But Enjolras has eyes, gorgeous blue eyes usually lit with a passionate flame that enthralls many, and Grantaire feels his own willpower slip away every rare time the intensity of those eyes is solely focused on him. Staring. Studying. That is how he ended up forgiving Enjolras for letting his cat run away because he simply _forgot_ that the cat (placed under his care for two days) existed. And that is how he ended up getting engaged to him, apparently.

Enjolras peers at him over his newspaper or a few more seconds before nodding, apparently satisfied.

« I'm glad you see things my way ... »

_(I didn't even know you had a way.)_

« ...  I don't know why we never thought of that before, actually ... »

_(Oh there are so many things you never thought of before.)_

« ... It will make everything easier ... »

_(I'll take your freaking name if it makes it easier for you to let me kiss you.)_

« ... We both regularly end up at the E.R. And we've been involved with the police enough times that another arrest would make things serious. If something happens to me, you need to know where I am, and vice-versa. An official civil union will hopefully simplify all the administrative procedures. _(Oh. … Right.)_ Not to mention, a lot of people obviously believe we're a couple. _(Yeah, fancy that.)_ I'm adamant that we've been denied some rights out of casual homophobia before. With a civil partnership, they couldn't legally do anything. »

Of course, Enjolras would want to get a civil partnership for emergency contact reasons. In any other occasion, it would be endearing.

« Well, Apollo, that's bullshit, if you ask me. »  
« Excuse me ? »

There it is, the scornful nostril flare. _This_ is familiar ground -not breakfast proposals.  
Grantaire shrugs with overdone nonchalance, the way he knows particularly irritates Enjolras.

« Okay, I couldn't give a fuck about _romance_ , but we're not going to get a freaking civil partnership just because you're pissed off at some employees, who didn't comply with your little desires after you went and got the shit kicked out of you by some cops. Administrations are shit anyway, and that's never going to change. It's definitely not going to change because we signed a paper. And if you're having issues with some homophobic twats, make one of your scandals, call the press for all I care, you know how they always love your pretty face. But I'm not going to get fucking married to you because you think it's practical. »

Over the years, Grantaire has put enough effort into trying to get Enjolras' attention to know exactly how to rile him up. Unnecessary cussing, the belittlement of what he believes in, a few quips about his physical appearance, and an obnoxious claim that « nothing will ever change » will do the trick just fine.  
The situation is typical to them. Almost mundane. And Grantaire feels somewhat in control again, but he knows very well he has gone too far. They both do. Although he and Enjolras argue on a daily basis, they have learned each other's limits ; the repeated times where they came very close to hitting each other have led to an unspoken agreement between them.  
He grabs his forgotten cup of coffee and stares at it blankly, hands slightly shaking. (Maybe he can pretend it was a breeze.) Enjolras' eyes are on him, the absurdly clear eyes that can make him agree to anything, even a goddamn fake proposal at 8am, and he often wishes the young man looked at him more often, saw him, but right now he can feel the burn of his cold gaze on his skin. Staring. Studying.  
If Grantaire knows how to get Enjolras worked up, Enjolras knows how to take Grantaire apart. A simple glare would be enough, but Enjolras is a man of words. Magnificent, destructive words. Listening to the person you love meticulously spelling out every single thing about yourself that causes you one more nightmare, makes you reach for one more bottle, and carves one more scar in your arm, remains the most terrifying experience of Grantaire's life. This had been the last time they had truly fought.  
The silence lasts too long before Grantaire hears the characteristic sharp intake of breath. Enjolras' voice pulses with anger, yet he sounds guarded, and even inquisitive.

« Why would you even bother agreeing in the first place, then ? »  
« What ? »  
« What was the point of saying yes ? » 

Grantaire doesn't know what to say. Doesn't dare look at Enjolras just yet. Mechanically, he takes a sip of the neglected coffee he didn't even want anyway. It tastes cold and bitter.

**Author's Note:**

> The premise of this story came to be as I was reading [Gnomon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/729438/chapters/1354908). I won't dare add some "inspired by another work" link, because my story is shit compared to luchia's fic, but just so you know, if you're in the E/R tag and you haven't read Gnomon, you are _missing out_. Go and read it. Now.  
>  Also, I thought I'd give some credibility to this story, so I slipped in two or three French things.  
> A [PACS](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Civil_solidarity_pact) is the acronym for the French equivalent of civil partnership. Just fyi, marriage equality should hopefully become legal this year, so yay.  
> The Cahuzac scandal is actually happening right now : basically, it's a political shitstorm.  
> [Courrier International](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Courrier_International) is a really good and exhaustive Paris-based newspaper.  
> Lille is a relatively big city in the very North of France (and it's really nice, you should visit it if you're spending some time in Paris ; it's just a one-hour train ride).
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
